hurt
by eviltaste
Summary: au: when things are kept inside for so long of resentment and secrets with no one to turn to that will understand, all there is left is hurt. strong m-rating (very dark)/trigger warnings inside/believer queen! DON'T LIKE, DON'T READ!
1. uno

**jumping on board w/ bq cuz i like it.**

**trigger warnings - rape, mild violence, incest (f u see it that way).**

He was lost in the moment, the moment of immense anger and pain. He must have been, Henry tells himself, because he knows it's wrong. Deep down inside him, he knows that his lips shouldn't be pressed against hers. Not like this.

But she's the Evil Queen, he reasons. She isn't his real mother. She may have raised him, in this world, in this house, but she wasn't the one who carried him for those months. She didn't give him life. In fact, she cursed him this life. A life that for the past seventeen years, as far as he can remember, he's the only one thats aged. He's the only one that remembers further back than anyone else. At least everyone in town, that no one can leave and have never thought to question why. Everyone, that is, except _her_.

Claw-like hands find his chest and she pushes it away from her as hard as she can. Her footing slides a bit from the loss of traction under high heels and he barely takes a step back from the strength of it, but it's all she has.

He might've been thrown across the dining room and possibly clear through the wall and into the backyard had she any magic, Henry surmises if not with a slight tilt of arrogance near the corners of his mouth. From what hes read in his book, she was one of the most powerful beings in all of the Enchanted Forest. If not the most feared. Her given name and title held quite a infamous reputation, after all. But they aren't in fairy tale land. This is the real world. Here, she isn't royalty or a sorceress. Here, he can easily toss her around like a ragdoll.

Her features express confusion, discomfort, and perhaps a little disgust. This is her son, she thinks, he knows better. Doesn't he? But his features express much darker themes. She can smell the alcohol on his breath. His hair is a bit tasseled and looks as if he dressed himself in the dark, with his shirt inside out and his belt having skipped a loop. Regina knows where hes been and with who. But the waitress isn't here and she isn't the one he's looking at now with those eyes. Those eyes that have always been able to see right through her. Regina doesn't think she can take it, and most definitely doesn't want to even fathom what those eyes are insinuating. He's not in his right mind.

"Henry...?" she whispers, her voice registering a lower-octave tone of caution. A warning.

"Your Majesty," he bites back. He can't help himself.

She averts her gaze around the room a moment before connecting with his again, taking on the ever-shading hues of his orbs, and swallowing over the lump that's formed in her throat. "We'll finish this conversation in the morning...when you've sobered up."

A chuckle bubbles out of him, a laugh so dark and sinister that it takes a double shot for her to realize what's happening, and her head slides to the back of her neck. "But we've just started, _mother_."

He says the word as if spitting it from his mouth, like the mere taste of it on his tongue is bad enough without having to add feeling behind it.

His eyes flicker down to her mouth and he unconsciously licks his lips. Then they're trailing down her neck in a deliberately slow manner. She can seemingly feel his eyes on her and she squirms under his scrutiny, finally landing on the cleft of her cleavage.

Regina can't anymore and she turns to leave but a strong arm shoots out in front of her across the threshold. Henry takes a fortifying step forward that towers over her. For a split second he sees something hes never seen before—fear in her gaze. A spurt of pride shoots through him, down his spine as he supposes he's the only one who will ever witness such a thing. And he'd be lying if he didn't detect something almost seductive about it, arousing him like nothing ever has or possibly ever will. There's something animalistic about it, too, something Ruby could never give him. Perhaps even with her memories, he silently muses.

She opens her mouth as if to rebuke, but it shuts just as quickly. She eases forward and tests wither he will give her permission to pass. He doesn't. He doesn't even flinch. Her face scowls with wonder, then she asks him, through his eyes she actually asks for permission. Again, he does nothing. Nothing, but smile. That, it appears, frightens her.

She tests her strength again, this time vocally. "Henry, dear? Let me pass."

It isn't a request. She's demanding now. She hasn't earned that yet, he tells himself, she doesn't deserve any more control over him. Not anymore.

When he doesn't move, her tone deepens to an octave he's never heard before. The Evil Queen, herself, finally making an appearance, he surmises with a shudder of excitement.

"You're starting to upset me, now, step aside."

"No."

She glares at him, "Why the hell not?"

"I like it when you're angry."

"...what?"

He kisses her then, her slack-jaw gap enough to allow his tongue to slip inside. But as soon as hes done that, her teeth clamp down, hard and fast, and he recoils away from her a moment, pressing a hand to his mouth. Then she slaps him fiercely across the jaw. His head jerks violently to the side and he stays there to collect his bearings. Her breath comes out in haggard exhales, he supposes in shock of her own actions before quickly scurrying away. He's setting his jaw and sucks in air as he swirls around to face her. The instant their eyes connect, she turns to run up the stairs as fast as her legs will carry her.

A minute later, he's body-slamming her atop her mattress, once his foot stops her door from slamming in his face and shoves it against the wall. He's leaning all of his weight onto her back now and pressing her down. He steals a second to tuck his nose in her short hair and inhales sharply, reveling in the distinct aroma of her that hes grown to know so well. It comforts him and throbs achingly between his legs. He rears back just far enough to slide his hands around her, first grabbing at her breasts through the thin material of her blouse and cup of her bra. She growls, pushing his hands away and continues to squirm underneath. But they both know that she isn't going anywhere. She isn't strong enough, at least not physically. He can quite literally keep her trapped there for as long as he likes.

"Henry, stop this. Stop this right now!"

She insists on fighting him and he doesn't know why. On some level, in the back of his mind, he knows this is wrong. But this isn't incest. It won't be, anyway. His trigger-happy fingers are only too eager for what he truly wants to touch. So if she won't let him feel around, he'll just jump straight to the chase then.

His hands slither quickly across rich cotton, soon finding the hem of her skirt. The instant she feels his fingers curling round it, she begins to struggle harder, kicking and pushing her feet against the floor to buck him off her somehow. Though to no avail. He's heavier and it's then that it hits her what is happening now, there's nothing she's going to be able to do to stop it.

His rough fingertips run along the inside of her thighs and she brings her knees together. He only laughs, his breath hitching the closer he nears his destination. He's unnervingly close and she desperately tries to will herself to squeeze her legs closer still. It doesn't work. He manages to force his right hand between them and comes in contact with her underwear, or what little there is of it. She growls again, which sounds more like a whine, silently cursing herself for having chosen it earlier that day. The single thread of lace runs between her cheeks before splitting in opposite directions, only to meet again in a wide triangle, covering her front. His other hand trails across the left side of her rear and grasps at the taught, squishy skin.

She gasps and pushes against him. "Henry, this is not..." Her words fail her as her mind races, anything to convince him to stop. "What are you doing? What is it you want?"

"You know what I want." He presses against her. His nose nuzzling in the crook of her neck and her head willingly slides to the side. Either in reprove, to place distance between them, or out of whatever maternal delusions she has from when he was younger and did the same, he isn't sure. Neither make him feel any better.

His crotch is at full solute now and can't wait much longer. It bumps against the cleft of her ass and slides up, so his shaft rubs perfectly in the dip between. She shifts away but he only scoots closer. His knees lean against the edge of the mattress while he balances of the tips of his toes, the rest of him resting on her while she fits snugly beneath. Where she ought to be.

"Henry," she gulps. He feels the motion run over his lips.

"Is this how Graham did it?" he cuts her off. "Did he touch you this way while I was just in the other room? Why don't you giggle and shush me when I do it?"

"Please, you don't want to do this, sweetheart."

She's reverting to pet names now. She thinks this will somehow persuade him into the little boy he once was. The little boy who had believed wholeheartedly that this woman—this pathetic excuse for a human being—had given birth to him. He didn't question her reasonings for why she did certain things or why he didn't know who his father was. Why they never took vacations to the beach like the commercials he'd seen on TV. Why, every year on his birthday, the friends he invited over got younger and younger from him.

"Don't call me that!" he hisses into her neck. Tears are threatening to spill from his eyes and a spark of anger ignites in him. His hands clutch firmly at her waist and lifts, lifting her with him to move up further on the bed, so legs aren't hanging off the end and he is now able to bunch her skirt up over her thighs, and yanks the panties down and off completely, g-strings snapping, so his dick can gain purchase of her center. Once he's freed himself from his buckle and already unzipped jeans.

She begins to whimper now and though her energy is fading, damn if she doesn't find an extra dose of adrenaline to fuel her struggles. What with keeping her down and dodging her arms flailing at him, he takes a few of his fingers and caresses roughly. She's wet, but not nearly enough for what he's about to do. It doesn't matter. He needs to do this, to teach her a lesson.

He positions himself at her entrance and almost as if in a hurry, in a frenzy to get this over with, he forces himself inside her. She isn't ready for him. She's tight and her whole body goes rigid and tense upon invasion, her head rearing back and she tries to crawl away on the bed.

"Ah, no-no, don't..." she begs. Her voice sounds so small and unlike anything remotely Regina Mills. But the words roll off her lips almost too easily, and it leaves him wondering if she's had to say them before. In this context. A pang of something makes his stomach churn.

The instant he slides out, she takes the opportunity to rear her foot up fast, the spike of her heel hitting him square in the back. He recoils long enough for her to scamper away, but she doesn't get far. A strong tug on her scalp has her thrown back on the mattress with a bounce and a yelp, her head hitting the pillows and he's on top of her again. Only this time covering her front.

Her hands are pushing, clawing at his face, ultimately succeeding in red ugly scratches across flushed skin. He manages to trap her wrists above her head and leans his weight upon that one arm, holding them there. Before her legs have a chance to act, again, he locks his knees on top, spreading her for him.

Now does his eyes take her in, bottom half ranked up, naked and bare before him. Soft, ivory shaven skin. On a whim, his free hand smacks her center and her body cringes from each blow. Over and over, until the flesh is glistening and red. He then spits in his palm and rubs the tip of his cock before bending down and entering her once more.

Her sheath is warm and wet, welcoming in this new position, yawning wide and seemingly wrapping around his length. She's mute, her eyes are squeezed shut and head turned away from him, features scrunched and creased with what appears to be pained endurance.

From all the excitement, however, he doesn't last long and his groan tingles, vibrating inside her as he thrusts, which are falling out of rhythm and growing in speed.

In some sick twisted way, as he gazes down at her, he doesn't like that she's not taking pleasure from this. He's so close and is beginning to feel so good that he wants her to feel it too. So he leans down, never stopping his ministrations, and starts kissing her. Her neck first, she makes a sound in her throat, a cross between disgust and yearning, then moves upwards to her cheek.

It's becoming difficult to keep this up because he's on the edge now and his breathing is shallow.

Her folds must be leaking with her juices because his penis is just sliding in and out with ease, wet slapping sounds faintly echoing against the ceiling. Regina's eyes are still closed and she's doing her best to lye as still as possible. Her wrists are chafing as Henry leans heavier upon them.

"Don't be sad," he pants, almost sympathetically, before finally dropping a kiss to her tightly pressed lips. "I'm loving you, mommy."

It's the last thing he says before his entire body shakes and he groans loudly as if singing to the music in his head. His hips drive hard against hers, driving his cock as deep as he can as he releases himself inside her.

His mouth hangs open and Henry's forced to throw his head back and look away, anger fading from him like his energy.

He soon sags on top of her, nuzzling his head in her neck, heart pounding in his chest, trying to catch his breath while loosening his grip.

It's over and he's still inside her.

She's able to free her hands and stretch out her legs beneath him, but neither of them move.

Instead, she hesitantly drapes her arms over his limp body and opens her eyes, his words having stricken a cord.

**tbc?**


	2. dos

**trigger warning - blasphemy.**

He must have passed out...or something, because he had roused from a slow motion-type haze by her touch.

Fingertips and nails on one hand had tentatively pushed at his waist while the other carefully withdrew its opened palm from his scalp to rear back and push against his opposite shoulder.

He isn't sure exactly how long he'd been out, but he figured a while when she managed him to slip out of her, his erection gone, and slide herself out from underneath him.

Drowsiness and perhaps his drunken state, too, set in fully then and right before he had drifted back into oblivion, he'd seen her shakenly make her way into the bathroom and quietly shut the door.

Now, as his head hangs low with the shower's nozzle pouring down on him and his arms outstretched, leaning his weight against the tiles of the far wall in front, he can't seem to wash away the guilt. Never mind the resounding hangover threatening to split his skull in half.

It'd been wrong on so many, many levels.

He'd raped his mother. That's what he'd done.

What gnaws at him even more is when waking up this morning, he found the space beside him still cold and the adjoining door next to the walk-in closet locked.

There had been no sound of running water, no indication of life at all on the other side. Just eerie silence.

She was hiding from him.

And it'd been best if he left instead of waiting for her to emerge.

What would he have even done?

What would there have been to say?

There are no words, no way to properly explain the immense shame he feels by his actions.

He'd gotten himself hammered, far past the point of making it home on his own, only for all his insecurities and things he'd pentup, unresolved over the years, to erupt out of him.

For it to rain upon the one person—the one—who'd always been there.

It hurts.

His heart breaks.

He'd raped his mother.

Jesus Christ.

**tbc...**


	3. tres

**tw - cursing, mild sexual content.**

Henry's late as he readies for school, maybe an hour or two, before cantering through the kitchen for a quick grab-n-go breakfast. But what does it matter really?

The curse makes sure everything runs its course, only to start again. So nothing ever truly changes in Storybrooke, nothing anyone will remember for long.

Except everything already has.

* * *

He decides on a whim to cut the last class and wait it out at the diner.

Ruby's working, as always, in her per usual outfit of cherry-red.

He likes that color on her, it's fitting considering who her second persona is. He likes how revealing every ensemble are; likes them short, low-cut, and tight. He likes the way she saunters up to him, her long legs striding with purpose. He especially likes the way she talks, how her scarlet lips curl perfectly around every vowel, because its exactly how she blows him.

As far as the town knows, though, she and Henry grew up together, despite the few years older she thinks she is and appearing seemingly stagnant to be, whose relationship steadily evolved from friends to benefits.

He later decides to take Ruby on her offer, after school hours, when her shift ends and leads them up to her room.

* * *

He thought she could help him forget—thought, with her breasts pressed against him, he wouldn't be reminded of his mother's.

How he'd held her down with his weight and how Ruby pulls him on top of her.

Bits and pieces of last night come to him in flashes and he can't help but think if Ruby's timbre were just that bit deeper or...

Henry tugs himself away because, _fuck_, he just...can't.

Ruby doesn't understand and bless her, she tries.

She's disheveled and bothered and wet, so very ready for him, so very hot. Enticing, the view, inviting. Pupils have almost adsorbed her irises, pleadingly, with grabby hands, and she paws at his clothes, wanting them off, gone, tossed on the floor.

She's whispering all the right things, then she starts to whimper when he brushes her away, and no-no, don't, because that makes it worse.

The excuse is on his lips as he sidesteps toward the door, but wha...? How does one even begin to explain why?

Why he can't touch her and not feel his mother.

All that he winds up saying are apologies, spewing just _sorry_, _I'm sorry_, over and over again.

Maybe if he repeats it enough, it'll get back to the one who should be hearing it instead.

He came here to hold off on returning home, from having to face Regina; what he'd done and what it'd done to her.

As he stumbles down the stairs and outside into the crisp night air, Henry finds that he's disappointed and that confuses him.

Not because Ruby wanted him.

But because it was Ruby.

**tbc...**


	4. cuatro

**tw - none, really.**

When he finally makes it home, he enters the house with a wary gate, afraid of what will be there waiting for him, afraid of what he might find or, a bit more fearfully, what he won't.

But inside is exactly how he'd left it that morning, and Henry makes his way from room to room of the main floor, turning off and on lights as he goes, nothing, it seems, has been touched.

No sign of his mother's existence or routine. In fact, no sign of his mother whatsoever.

Dirty dishes still sit in the sink, yesterday's mail stationary and unopened on her desk, yet the blinking light on the answering machine give him pause.

He presses play, and it's Sydney calling to inform that things had been rescheduled or postponed, that _not to worry_, he'd_ taken care of it_, her mirror unsure why he hadn't seen nor heard from Regina.

So unlike her, so out of character.

Panic begins to set then, picking at his nerves and he jogs up the stairs, taking two—three at a time, discovering the door to her bedroom unmoved.

Impressions still pressed into the sheets of their struggle, smeared and stained.

The bathroom door, the same.

His concern for her overwhelms him and overrides his self-control, working his legs to creep towards it and lay his hand on the knob.

He halts abruptly just before actually turning it, his conscience catching up with him, though his thumb caresses, itching to defy the voices screaming at him to leave her be, to let her come to him, to give her space, give her time.

The need, however, to be near, to soothe, to fix, taunts him in the opposite ear, and suddenly he feels as if standing at the foot of a lioness's den.

She's unleashed quite a temper, he's witnessed on numerous occasions, upon many a citizen of their quaint little town.

Even Gold, himself, treads lightly.

And Henry's hurt her, in the worst of ways one can do to another, to a woman, to his own mother.

_Oh God_, he just wants to take it away, take it back...so he twists the handle and leans into it.

And to his awe...it gives.

**tbc...**


	5. cinco

**tw - more of the same.**

His fingers graze the polished wood as it swings away from him with an almost inaudible screech of their hinges that seem to resound within the confined space. The moon seemingly casts an aberrational glow, filling it in soft silver, and as his eyes roam, it's there, peeking out from behind the clear stall, Henry spots her.

Regina sits huddled in the far corner with her spine completely against a tiled-wall, bare feet flat on the floor, heels kicked across the drain on the opposite side of the shower, bracing her legs firmly locked in a folded fashion to her chest, neck hung low over her knees, hair obscuring her face like a curtain.

Her clothes, the same as the night before, appear as though she'd washed with them on and dried wet, wrinkling to her form, just like the natural kink of her short ebony locks indicate—ruined.

Exactly like he ruined her, and _fucking Christ_ does it all weigh upon his shoulders more evident now than the day's entirety, how she'd sat here all the while, lost in her mind, and it pushes him down to her literal level, his impulse betraying him yet again, because Henry wants to go to her and so he does.

His feet creep while duck-walking, hands and arms outstretched to remove the last remaining barrier between them. But one of her own shoots out, faster than he'd been ready for, causing his approach to stop at an abrupt halt and instinctively jerk back on his hunched heels.

"Get. _Out_." a hush growl resonates, much deeper than he ever remembers hearing it before, though calm and curt, as if it were taking everything she had to refrain herself.

Apart from her palm pressed to the glass keeping the door in place, and him in his, she still hasn't moved, hasn't given him the courtesy of raising her head. Nevertheless, there's a slight shiver to her crouched stature and he observes her again.

Henry takes in the slumped shoulders, the other hand taped athwart her upper features, revealing an irritated wrist where he'd bound her by his strength alone, and that encourages—no, instigates him to speak, placing his hand on hers.

They're not touching, but he's sure she can feel the pressure he's leaning upon the door.

"Mom...you're wet, lets—"

"**GET**!" the queen roars, encompassing all that not a moment ago was nearly reticent, startling him and drawing back once again, swearing to have felt the gentle sway of the house itself waver, leaving a ringing in his ears.

In spite of her not looking at him, perhaps disinclined to and he can't blame her, a sensation begins to pinprick behind his eyes and he slowly shakes his head. "...no."

His rebuke is quiet but it doesn't go unheard and Henry is suddenly met with piercing dark orbs, narrowed and red-rimmed.

Her gaze ominous, her scarred lip curls, "You dare defy me?"

He doesn't recognize her, this broken woman in front of him. It's frightening, however he can't bow down. He won't.

"_Please_," he croaks, ironing out his backbone a bit while stray tears roll off his chin. He needs her, he needs his mother to return to him. "I'm sorry, I'm so-so sorry."

An emotion he hopes is mercy ripples across her mask. He can't fathom a punishment more painful or more deserving than to witness her like this, to view her so disconnected from where they are, to reach the woman he loves inside, and so he continues to plead.

The words sound foreign mixed with his teenaged timbre, the little boy in him speaking through, "Mommy, I'm on my knees...you're scaring me."

And that seems to do it, to crack enough away at her walls, to reach her in a place that apparently even she's afraid to venture because then that voice, the one she used last night, struggles free confused and neurotic. "Henry...?"

And he's scrambling forwards like a shot, not missing how she cowers by his abruptness, slipping and tripping over himself until she's in his arms, clutching at her tightly, burrowing his nose in her neck, sharply inhaling her scent and the lingering smell of water.

He weeps, for her, for himself, for everything he'd done, for everything he'd thought and said, for everything he'd seen and touched, for everything he's her put through, for them both, for the past, for the future, he just...wept.

"I'm sorry, mommy, I love you so much," he spews, his sentences choppy, broken by hiccup heart throbbing, gut wrenching sobs. "I'm so-so _so_ sorry..._oh God_, I love you so much, mom..._please_..._forgivve meee_."

**tbc...**


	6. seis

They had stayed like that until he calms, however long that had been—time it'd taken passing at a different rate, and then it isn't until Henry shifts onto his side, now able to look up at her with his head on her shoulder, does he realize she has her arms wrapped just as tightly round him, fingers dug into the material of his shirt just as his are clutching her own.

He sniffles, suddenly feeling content, an almost reassuring sense of safety, washing over him and rinsing the rest away.

But when her lungs fill, rising for a deep breath, does he notice how tense she really is, how taunt, rigid...before releasing that air to run through her vocal cords.

"I told my mother once...that I would rather die than be like her," she says in a daze, monotone and disturbingly serene. It stiffens him. "And she swore to me that someday _my child_ would look me in the eye and be just as evil."

Henry pulls away, that contentment gone in an instant and replaced with despair. Her grip loosens, drifts, and falls the more the space between them grows, just far enough out of her reach.

"I didn't mean it," he blurts.

Her eyes had taken a distant blank stare, and next blink to connect eyes with him still devoid of emotion. Nothing but seemingly bottomless pits of black, which remind him like that of a cat's.

Right before they pounce.

"But I never imagined that you could be this cruel."

**tbc...**


	7. seite

She snatches his chin, so fast, grabbing it in her opened fist, tendons flexed and claws bared, Henry barely had time to react.

She practically brings her face to his, arching his spine in an arkward position, bareing her teeth in a feral manner, his neck choked toward the ceiling as she climbs to her knees, slowly-carefully-stragically placing herself to tower over him, eyes seemingly boiling his own, her breath mixing with his every inhale. The only thing that was missing were the eleborate clothes of old world, perhaps even the heavy maquillage. But it was no matter.

Her Majesty must have noticed his mother emerge and drug her back.

He wants to reach out again...needs to rescue her, somehow, from herself. It's dawning now, just how destructive she can be when the Evil Queen wills it.

To witness it before him-to watch it happen absolutely destroys him, indeed.

He wants to reach out, but the most he's able is clutch at her forearm. The one that's connected to the hand currently framing his jaw with nails digging into his skin...gazing directly back into the mask of a real and very deadly killer.

"You disgust me..." she hisses. Like a cat, like a snake, like an animal, he doesn't know anymore. If it weren't for the lighting, or lack thereof, he could even swear to have seen extracting fangs.

Even so, in the shadows of the master bath, Regina, his mother, is no longer here. In fact, if he were to ask and if he thought she would answer, she probably doesn't know where she is.

And now, for the first time in his life...he isn't sure whose to blame the true villain of the piece.

**tbc...**


	8. ocho

**the chaps will remain on the short side just cuz n the beginning i wasnt sure where i was goin w/ it but now that i have an idea of the direction i want 2 take, im still makin it all up as i go. i feel like im starting from scratch n a sense so im just feelings things out and trying 2 get back n2 the swing of things XD**

He wakes up, and it's strange. It isn't because he's languidly blinking up at a cream-colored ceiling nor the feel of the hard tiled floor beneath him, only to then squint away from the rays of sun streaming down through the thin closed slats of the window blinds. It isn't because his entire body senses as if seemingly filled with led that all he can do is afford slow small efforts of movement before his muscles go lax again.

It's because his last obtainable recollection is of having been met face to face with the Evil Queen from his storybook. And though she hadn't been adorned with anything resembling the perverse finery as shown illustrated in those pages, it was evident simply in the way she spoke, in the words she used, tongue dipped with antiquated charm, albeit imperious and threatening as was delivered.

So he continues to lay where he is a moment more, evidently still in his mother's bathroom adjoining the master suite, absently watching dust particles float about above him once his eyes have adjusted to the morning light, it's strange he ponders, and his face pinches into an expression he could guess would be perceived as uncomfortable or confused, because everything that follows or could have, his mind blanks. It's as if he had blacked out, perhaps his brain's way of protecting itself, overwhelmed out of fear.

Or could she have...? No.

Losing time was one thing but...the thought of her erasing memory was...doubtful. Not without physically hurting him. Not for a woman who weighed half as much as he and barely stood to his chin.

No; the notion was ludicrous.

However, his logic brings him to question where exactly she is and Henry lifts his head to cast a wayward glance around the room to find himself alone, yet again. Nothing but the smudged handprint upon the otherwise pristine shower glass door. The one indication that the night before had indeed taken place and it weren't his head screwing with him completely.

It's strenuous, forcing his joints to bend and limbs to push. He stretches, loses balance, and repeats until he's able to at least sit upright against the nearest wall. He chalks it up to emotional, mental, psychological exhaustion, or whatever, as he tries to control his breathing. It picked up but not vigorously, and he begins to think about his next move. What will he do once he finds his feet?

Should he seek her out?

When he finds her, what then?

What does this mean for them? With everything that's transpired in just the past twenty-four hours, how do they move forward from here?

He may be getting ahead of himself assuming they can even move forward by any means.

Suddenly Henry jumps, his shoulders hiking to his ears, startled by a noise he least expected to hear.

A noise he hasn't heard, not even once, in all his time stuck in Storybrooke, what he believed hadn't needed to work since its creation. Not with a curse that sustained every living thing, except him.

But he knows enough to recognize the sound as it rings.

Noon.

**tbc?**


End file.
